Love, Impaired
by Desired Constellation
Summary: 23 year old Hermione, a wizarding therapist in the making, takes on her first subject: A crude, rundown Draco Malfoy who suffers from, or possibly enjoys, alcoholism. What happens when two individuals from opposite ends of the spectrum of life collide?


**Author's Note**: Hello, all! It is my pleasure to present to you…a classic Hermione/Draco fic! I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I hereby denounce all ownership of the following fanfiction's characters, places, and concepts, with loose exception to the plot.

**Synopsi**s: 23 year-old Hermione, a wizarding therapist-in-the-making, takes on her first subject: A crude, run-down Draco Malfoy who suffers (or possibly enjoys) alcoholism. What happens when two individuals from opposite ends of the spectrum of life collide? FIND OUT!

(And don't forget to review after you're done P)

– **Chapter One: The Upset and the Set-up –**

Draco Malfoy awoke groggily from his stone-cold slumber. Checking the clock that read "Nursing Hangover", he looked over with squinty eyes beside him and saw a lump under the blanket. He didn't remember sleeping with anyone last night. Then again, what _did_ he remember happening in the past 24 hours? Draco scoffed in disgust, kicking the form out of his bed, and staggered out of it himself. How he found the bathroom in time still remains a mystery to this day.

_Uhoh, here we go..._

He fell towards the toilet, hugging it as if it were his dear friend – the stream of vomit arcing like a fountain of what was presumably half-digested martinis and olives that overstayed their welcome in his stomach. Draco wiped his chin sloppily and sat back against the wall, much too disoriented to even open his eyes. He should have been used to it by now, since he usually found himself in this situation practically every other day. Somewhere in his mind the young man registered that this habit of living probably wasn't a healthy one – but what was the point of living if one must always abstain from having fun? Besides, partying and all the devilish revelries that stemmed from the act were slowly turning into an addiction. It was a cycle Draco couldn't seem to break, even if he wanted to. Even if he tried. Even if...his friends staged an intervention of some sort.

Friends? Draco attempted sluggishly to recall any acquaintance who he had kept in touch with for more than one night. Nobody and nothing came to mind. True to his reputation as a roamer, the twenty-three year old could barely manage to remain loyal to a favourite brand of crisps for long. In his opinion, there seemed to be no point in dwelling upon anything remotely outdated. Why dally? What was the point? A sharp jabbing pain in his head brought him back to brutal reality and reminded Malfoy of his unruly hangover. _Can't think...hurts too much_. _Mmm...Fancy vodka right about now..._

It was hours later that Draco mustered up the strength to haul his derelict body out of the bathroom, retaining balance long enough to grip the curtains in a last-ditch attempt to remain vertical – which caused them to imminently rip apart from the wall, casting an ungodly amount of sunshine to illuminate the dingy room. He groaned audibly, suddenly having the urge to hiss and drink blood and carry out with all the other vampiric conventions.

Ugh...Was alcohol even worth it? he wondered, dazed and confused. The lump now at the foot of the bed still hadn't budged – was it even alive anymore? Had he had been in a more conscious state of mind, Draco would have conjured up a remedy for this damned migraine, but 1) he had exhausted all his ingredients for that potion several weeks ago, and 2) any movement at all resulted in prolonged dull throbbing that was painful enough to render an ogre comatose.

Oh well...maybe if he could just lay here and wait out the storm going on inside his head...just...for...

Draco blacked out once again on the floor of a dingy inn in the slums of Knockturn Alley, proving once again that he was the epitome of pathetic wizarding bums that were slowly growing influence in London.

–

Hermione Granger sighed emphatically at her desk in the Ministry of Magic office as she fulfilled her least favourite task: filing and typing up tedious amounts of correspondence to her boss's needy clients. She was growing increasingly annoyed at how Percy Weasley promised impossible things to them as if to temporarily sate his customers' demanding appetites for justice. She just didn't bloody care anymore that the muggle society was growing suspicious of Mrs. Peasegood's feral tea kettle, or if Arnold Bones' apparition to Micronesia gave him violent indigestion (it probably had nothing to do with apparating and everything to do with the spoiled coconuts he so greedily consumed, anyway)!

Hermione felt like she was teetering over the precipice of a mid-life crisis despite the fact that she was barely twenty-three!

"Granger, will you hurry up with those papers? I've got a very demanding clientele that needs to be attended to sooner than humanly possible!" chided Percy Weasley in a dismissive, patronizing tone. He barely noticed his secretary's face grow an angry shade of red before it was too late.

"Well, why don't you get off your lazy arse in your fancy-schmancy, glass-paneled, fully-furnished office and START WORKING?" Hermione had reached the end of her fuse. "Consuming doughnuts while dumping all this work on me is simply the least productive thing one can HUMANLY – POSSIBLY – DO!"

Percy was too stunned to reply.

"What are you doing just standing there? Get working, you clod!" she snapped, throwing a considerable amount of paperwork at his face.

Her boss finally mustered up the confidence to say, "Now, Granger. Remember that YOU work for ME, and I will NOT tolerate this insubordinate behaviour!"

"Fine, then I quit." Hermione was surprised at her impulsive decision. She noticed with a feeling of satisfaction as Percy's face paled on cue.

"Wait, no, surely you don't mean that. I-I can't handle all these orders without assistance!"

"Then get another secretary – but good luck finding one who'll be willing to clean up your slop," shouted Hermione over her shoulder as she grabbed her handbag and strolled confidently out of the office building. She felt like a whole new woman, reinventing her entire persona in a mere five minutes!

The only question was...now what?

–

Draco sat stiffly in his aunt's floral-decorated apartment, pining away for a shot of gin and tonic. He ran his fingers nervously through his hair – it became a habit now that he couldn't afford to buy gel anymore.

"Draco, dearie! Do you prefer coffee or tea?"

He had dozed off just then.

"Draco?" Aunt Margalo popped her head out of the kitchen, spying her snoozing nephew. "DRACO!"

"Huh-wha..? Oh, um, coffee please. Black," he managed to say while yawning.

In no time, the two were having their mid-afternoon tea in a stuffy living room. The sun seeping through the permeable curtains gave the man a headache as he gulped his coffee gratefully. He noted with slight disdain that it tasted uncannily like instant beverage mix.

His aunt Margalo was actually his mother's half-sister. She herself was a witch, though she chose to reside in the suburbs of muggle London. The portly woman was the only relative that Draco could stand to keep in touch with. His aunt was one of the few who could defy Lucius Malfoy's tyrannical hold on the family and still come out relatively unharmed. The two had tea once a month or so – Margalo Hincks wanted to make sure that her dearest nephew did not stray too far into the vice-ridden existence that he had lately wandered so near to. She kept a watchful eye on him, whether he was aware of it or not.

Today Draco looked like a wreck, as if he had been drowned in alcohol and modeled himself after Macaulay Culkin on heroine. She witnessed as he sluggishly poured cream into the pot of sugar by accident, and then took a scone and tried to drink it, thinking it was his coffee.

That was the last straw. It was time for an intervention.

"Draco, you are going to get professional help whether you very well like it or not!"

–

Hermione sifted through a mountain of career pamphlets as she constantly had to remind herself that quitting her job was the best thing she had ever done.

_Strong, independent women do not regret their decisions...We are intelligent individuals who are better off without ignorant, chauvinistic pigs – I mean, men – who think they're entitled to boss us around...It is – Oh bollocks, this is hopeless!_

Somehow, the prospect of becoming "Sewage Clerk", as one pamphlet unconvincingly advertised, made Hermione despair of ever finding what she was destined to become. Then, as if God had willed a miracle, the sea of unsuitable pamphlets parted to reveal... (Cue heavenly music)... wizarding psycho-therapist?

"Eh, close enough." she said, starting to flip through the brochure.

–

**Author's Note**: For those of you who have made it all the way to the end, THANKYOU very much for giving this story a chance. Now would you be so very kind as to leave a little treat for moi? (i.e. REVIEW!..please.)


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